


Help Music (Things Can Only Get Better)

by 20plus10 (Helen_Pie)



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen_Pie/pseuds/20plus10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jones is trying to tell Dan something as best he can. Unfortuantely Dan doesn't seem to be getting the message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Music (Things Can Only Get Better)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really like fics that involve heavily copied and pasted song lyrics, so each section contains a link to a Youtube video. Like Jones I run my life by the music I'm listening to, so all of these songs could realistically be those listened to by Dan and Jones up to the time of Nathan Barley (circa 2005 - 2006). Tracks will be listed at the end.

[How did we ever get this way? Where's it gonna go?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tb6NCdAVrr4) 

At first, Dan thought the most unnerving thing about returning to the House of Jones was the silence. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man himself when he was in hospital, and now as Claire helped him through the doorway he braced himself for the usual cacophonous mix of beats, but there was…nothing. Just an eerie stillness and an unusually reserved Jones peering at him from behind silent decks. Dan settled onto the familiar sofa, wincing in pain as he arranged the cast on his leg and arm.

Claire was concerned enough to hang around for the first few days, but after satisfying herself that Jones wouldn’t let Dan languish or fall back into old habits, her appearances became few and far between as she pursued her latest project with the uber idiot. Fine. Dan preferred it that way, he didn’t do fuss and he didn’t want pity anyway. He didn’t deserve sympathy, just scorn.

So that just left him and Jones. Jones diligently tended to Dan, fluffing his pillows, giving him soup, dispensing his pain medication…but somehow, conversation was minimal. Maybe it was just the absence of pounding bass between them but Dan was certain Jones was avoiding his gaze, even if he never missed his timings with the pills, even if his hands were gentle…

It wasn’t until three days after Dan retuned that Jones said more than two words to him. They were sat watching some god awful talent show on telly, bathed in the blue light of the screen, when Jones shifted on the settee and said “Don’t you fucking dare do anything like that again Dan Ashcroft,” never taking his eyes from the screen.

Dan started and looked over at his flatmate in shock. “I won’t,”

Jones just nodded in reply and that was the end of that.

*

Naturally, Jones couldn’t function without music so after the conversation on the settee, Dan thought normal order was being resumed. That was until he realised that Jones wasn’t playing Jones mixes at all anymore. His speakers seemed to be blaring an alarming number of commercially successful dance hits. This scared Dan more than the silence, more than his own thoughts when he lay staring at the ceiling puzzling out the Window Jump and trying to piece the fragments of his mind back together.

“I thought you hated this kind of shit?”

Jones just shrugged. “Some of it’s alright,” he said, eyes down as he scrolled through his iPod.

 

[You got me dancing and crying, rolling and flying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6e3R-aA2LA)

Dan’s head fell to the table with a thump, narrowly missing the incomplete newspaper by his elbow. Another day, another inexplicable song taking over the kitchen as the early(ish) morning light filtered in through the window. Jones hummed along, tapping the teaspoon on the edges of his favourite mug, his hair a riot of colours, his bare feet stomping out the beat on the lino as he read the Lifestyle section.

Dan lifted his head and shot what he hoped was a derisive look at the ever-cheerful DJ, before taking a pointed slurp of his tea, trying to ignore the fact that he couldn’t find fault with the perfect brew. Damn Jones.

“So how you feeling Dan?” Jones was oblivious to Dan’s silent judgement of his music choices.

“Better,” Dan grumbled, taking refuge behind his mug again.

“Doc said you should be feeling more comfortable now you’ve got your casts off. And you can scratch you own itches again again, no need for me to dig about with a knitting needle!” Jones grinned.

“Yes, thanks Jones, I really needed reminding about my total loss of all dignity.”

The grin persisted, and Dan felt his own lips tug up in the beginnings of a smile, which only made Jones smile the wider. Dan cleared his throat and turned back to the paper, trying to think hard about the economic climate.

_You got me –_

The waily voice soaring above the beat kept repeating the same lines over and over. Something about feeling and dancing and crying and not letting go. Utter shite.

Giving up on the news, Dan folded the section in half just as Jones slid his own paper over, wordlessly swapping sections in perfect synchronisation.

 

[I want to praise you like I should](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruAi4VBoBSM)

Dan has no words for the pain. Hot needles stabbing at the delicate bones in his hand was probably the closest he could get, but it didn’t get close enough. Yes, he had done some serious damage to larger parts of his being but it was the fractured bones in his hands that were the bane of his bloody existence. As a writer, Dan’s hands were conduits, channelling his thoughts through tapping at keys, scrawling his diatribe with an HB pencil against notepaper. He could barely hold a fork any more without the burning pain needles returning.

Sprawled out in the living room, he tried to recall the exercises his physiotherapist had given him. If only he could hear himself think above Thinman Fat or whatever his name was. You know, the DJ with that song with the video, back in the late 90s when Dan was carefree and naïve and went to clubs in a decidedly non-ironic way.

Giving up, he let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He didn’t hear Jones come in over the racket, didn’t know he was there until he felt small hands gather his up.

“You need to keep up to these you know Dan,” Jones’ voice was relatively quiet.

“Forgot ‘em,” Dan muttered.

“Good job I remember them then eh?” Jones quirked one eyebrow and began expertly moving Dan’s digits through the series of movements. Being Jones it was all in time to the beat, but that in itself was strangely soothing.

Dan looked down at Jones’ head, bent over as he concentrated on his work. He’d been flatmates with Jones for years, which had turned into friendship, and now…well Jones had cared for him with dogged persistence, ignoring Dan’s attempts to push him away, laughing at his more creative insults and generally being a pain in the arse. But it had brought them closer together, and for that Dan was grateful. In a world of Idiots, Jones had always been his safe haven. He might look like one of them, but Jones was his own man. He was a scrappy, cockney bitch insomniac DJ, and he didn’t pander to Barley and his ilk.

He was Dan’s.

The physio was painful but necessary, and Jones was making sympathetic noises whenever Dan winced. “Can’t believe you fractured your hands. They’re all big and strong and Northern, how’d you manage it, eh?”

Jones glanced up and caught Dan’s eye, cheeks slightly pink. Was it a rhetorical question? Without being able to write anything down, Dan felt like he had lost his words so struggled to form any real response. Jones released his hand, giving it a little pat for good measure.

“Haven’t you got a gig tonight?”

“Yeah, first one in ages. I’ll be off soon…Dan…”

“Yeah?”

“You’ll be ok for a few hours won’t you?”

Dan snorted “Of course, I’m an invalid, not an infant. Go. Spin your decks, make your music, entertain the masses.”

Jones barked out a laugh and stuck his middle finger up at Dan before leaving the room to get his gear together.

 

[I'll make you mine, you know I'll take you to the top](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DNQRtmIMxk)

“JONES! What the actual fuck is this?”

“ ‘s Whigfield.”

“I know it’s fucking Whigfield, why the hell are you playing it?!”

Jones was leaning over the mantelpiece, almost nose-to-nose with his reflection in the mirror and tongue stuck out in an expression of concentration as he lined his bright blue eyes with kohl. “Now that’s a bit obvious Dan, isn’t it? It’s Saturday. We’re goin’ out.”

Dan could only splutter hopelessly at the smaller man. “But it’s shite! It’s Eurodance pop shite Jones, what the hell is going on with you? Where’s the crash noises, the kazoo, the eternal loops of chaos?”

Jones spun round, laughing as he ruffled at his mop of hair to add volume. “Don’t be such a great big Yorkshire killjoy. It’s kitsch.” He pulled on a few plastic bracelets or ‘bits of pretty’ as he liked to call them. “Now, are you going to let me sort your hair out before we go? It’s your party to celebrate the fact you’re fully healed in mind and body, I can’t let you leave the house with a barnet like that.”

Dan had no choice but to relent, letting Jones rearrange his curls into something vaguely resembling style even as he sang along. Dan looked at the ceiling to try to avoid watching the DJ wiggle his hips in time to the music.

“Now don’t try and tell me you don’t know the dance moves to this one Dan, I won’t believe you.”

Dan laughed, and Jones stilled at the unfamiliar noise, his stare suddenly too intense for a split second as he looked as his best mate. As quickly as he had stopped, he started again, launching into the moves with gusto, bracelets rattling as he clapped. His belt was slung low on his hips as they moved in time to the beat, and he hopped backwards and forwards on his way to the front door, Dan in tow.

Once on the doorstep he turned back to Dan, and then, so quickly Dan wasn’t even sure it happened, he raised himself on to his tiptoes and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Dan’s mouth. “C’mon sunshine, let’s go!”

Dan could only follow.

[Standing here right by your side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3j2pGMnKj4)

Noting more was said about the kiss, and Dan began to wonder if it had been a figment of his imagination. Unfortunately it set his mind on a dangerous path and for the next week his subconscious mind seemed intent on haunting his dreams with strains of “Saturday Night” and blue eyes peering at him from underneath a patchwork fringe.

It didn’t help that Jones himself, though never bringing up the kiss, seemed to be in a distinctly odd mood. On several occasions he would catch Jones looking at him expectantly mid-conversation, or raising his eyes to the speakers when another tract started playing, then licking his lips, glancing at Dan, and glancing down. In all, it was a baffling and unnerving display.

Jones had also pleaded fairly incessantly with Dan to go to his gig that Friday, as he was headlining at a club and needed moral support from his nearest and dearest. Dan had relented eventually, if only because he owed Jones several times over from his period of recuperation, and now he was in a more…balanced state of mind he could at least stand a couple of hours among the huddled masses.

*

The club was a dimly lit, sticky affair with neon graffiti daubed on nearly every available surface. The drinks were lurid and garnished with flashing ice cubes and flamingo straws, and Dan hated everything and everyone. Except Jones of course, the only reason he was here was to support his friend, even if it meant consuming drinks that were more E numbers than alcohol, and making small talk with the various trendy scene kids that followed Jones.

After staying glued to Dan’s side for the first hour, introducing him to a variety of mates with baffling, one syllable names like “Baz” and “Beatz” , Jones peeled off to chat to a group of girls decked out in eye wateringly bright rave gear. He seemed more manic and twitchy than ever, and Dan wondered vaguely how much sleep the DJ had had in the lead up to his big gig. He didn’t sleep nearly enough for Dan’s liking, and seemed to think that man could live on sugary cereal alone…

It was during one of these musings about Jones’ wellbeing that Dan happened to catch the other man’s eye. Jones’ gaze softened for a second and Dan could see that he was making his excuses to leave the groupies. He braced himself for the inevitable “Alright Dan?” and arm round his shoulder, but Jones had other plans.

Approaching the DJ booth where the support act was, Jones hoisted himself up into the booth and exchanged a greeting with the guy, initiating a complicated looking handshake-cross-fist bump and leaning in to make himself heard. It was clear that the current DJ was shocked at what he heard, and shook his head repeatedly. Jones nodded and began gesturing insistently, and Dan – though not an accomplished lip reader – could make out the words ‘ or I'll tell everyone’.

The other threw his hands up in exasperation, and sighing in defeat, turned to his flight case and pulled out a record. Very odd.

Seemingly satisfied, Jones gave him a cheery wave goodbye and clambered back down, making his way to the bar. The distinctly edge mix morphed into something decidedly more old school, a jarring contrast to the minimalist texture of the last track. Keyboard filled the air and lines blasted out of the speakers that took Dan right back to 1994.

_You sure make me feel like lovin’ you_

Jones materialised at his side, that strange, soft, expectant look on his face once more. “Alright Dan?”

What did he want? “Yeah, alright…” Dan trailed off, unsure of what to say next. Jones vibrated with displeasure, practically stamping his foot as he threw his arms up in a gesture as if to say ‘Look! Look at everything in this room!’

Dan was flummoxed.

Jones’ tut couldn’t be heard over the music but Dan could certainly make out a pointed eye roll, and the younger man downed his drink, tutted once again and stalked off, walking straight out of the club.

Frozen for a second, Dan’s brain quickly kicked into gear and he followed the DJ out into the alley. He couldn’t think straight, all he knew was he needed to figure out what the fuck was wrong with his mate before it drove him batshit crazy.

“Jones! What the hell is wrong with you lately?” It came out louder than intended but he needed to get his point across. Jones was lighting up a cigarette, cupping his shaking hand around the flame before taking a drag, eyes narrowed and other hand curled in a fist at his side.

“What?!” yelled Jones “You know perfectly well what’s wrong Dan, I’ve been tellin’ you,” his South London accent was suddenly thicker than ever and Dan swallowed hard.

“No I don’t.”

“I’ve been tellin’ you,” Jones repeated, “I’ve been tryin’ to tell you…”

Still none the wiser, Dan shouted “How? When?”

Jones scoffed then dropped his unfinished cig, grinding it down into the pavement with his trainer. “It’s not my fault you‘re so bloody dense, Dan. Figure it out. Listen.”

With that he was gone, disappearing back into the club to get ready for his set without a backwards glance.

 

[I always feel like somebody’s watching me (and I’ve no privacy)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lh8_4qqX5bo)

_Listen._

Dan was almost asleep; having left for home just after Jones disappeared. No use hanging round to support someone who was pissed off at you, so Dan headed back to the House, buying a bottle of whisky on the way. Chain smoking on the sofa with a tumbler of amber liquid, he had tried to figure out what Jones was on about before giving it up for a bad job and pulling a blanket round his shoulders so he could get his head down and kip for a couple of hours.

_Listen._

Dan was always listening. You couldn’t help but listen to Jones, he radiated sunshine, he was friendly, open and warm, and you couldn’t really maintain much cynicism in the face of full on Jones joie de vivre (and Dan had certainly tried).

He was like a magnet, pulling everyone in, and opposites definitely attract. He was attractive too, no doubt about that. Dan wasn’t overt about his sexuality but he didn’t like to label. Jones was striking, uniquely himself and exuding a combination of wide eyed innocence and devilishly knowing grin that yes, tended to have something of an effect on Dan’s imagination (and his trousers).

What had changed since the accident? Certainly there was a new dimension to their friendship; they had had to admit pretty early on that they cared about each other beyond just being flatmates passing like ships in the night. His mind turned the puzzle over and over as Dan drifted in and out of sleep, and even though the music had been shut off in Jones’ absence, Dan could sense certain tracks skittering through his subconscious…that song at the club, who had sung that? You sure do. You sure make me feel like –

Oh.

Oh.

He was jolted awake not just by the revelation, but by the clanking of pipes as someone turned off the shower. Jones was back from his gig then. Dan rose from the sofa before he was even fully awake, skulking down the hall to where the bathroom door was ajar, faint noises coming from the radio becoming closer and closer until –

Jones was clad in only a threadbare white towel round his waist, wiping away smudged eyeliner from under those blue eyes. His shoulders were hunched and tense, his brow creased in obvious lingering annoyance.

Jones was frustrated at him. He’d been trying to tell Dan how he felt, in the only way he really knew. He wasn’t to know that Dan was clueless, that it was only now that he had got the message and realised he felt the exact same way. He’d always said that Jones was his, and it was only now that he had figured out what that meant, that he wanted Jones to be his in every sense. He could no more imagine a life without Jones than he could without his typewriter, without oxygen.

“Jones.”

Jones jumped a clear two inches, eyes wide and startled, towel just starting to slip, revealing a dark trail of hair on his abdomen, leading downwards….

“Jesus Christ Dan, warn a man before you do that yeah?” He exhaled shakily.

“Jones,” Dan took a step closer, invading the other man’s personal space, marvelling at how small he seemed suddenly. Jones gazed up at him from this new vantage point.

“Shit. You figured it out. It’s ok Dan, I don’t need you to feel the same I just –“

“Be quiet Jones.”

Dan cupped his cheek, smoothing his thumb along the prominent cheek bone, inadvertently swiping at a few stray smudges of kohl.

“Dan-“

His protest was cut short by Dan’s lips, moving against Jones’ insistently before deepening the kiss. The moment their tongues touched Dan felt a jolt of electricity run through the younger man, which sent a thrill up his own spine as he buried his hands in Jones’s hair. Jones moaned deep in his throat and pulled Dan closer, fitting his hips up snugly against his own, pressing himself against Dan as the towel slipped to the floor, forgotten.

[So teach me now that things can only get better](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aj4wcuo9Mgo)

Two Weeks Later…

Dan heard the door slam, the shaking of the umbrella and the stomp of booted feet. It was time. Dan pressed play.

Jones clattered through to the kitchen, weighed down by Tesco carriers and blowing his wet fringe out of his eyes. He didn’t notice the music at first so missed the first few lines, but as he began shoving bits into the fridge haphazardly, his ears visibly pricked up as he was assaulted by pop music.

_I'm singing it now, things can only get better They can only get better if we see it through_

_That means me and I mean you too_

_So teach me now that things can only get better_

_They can only get, they only get, take it on from here_

_You know, I know that things can only get better_

He spun round accusingly, to find Dan stood, his arms out in a gesture of offering, a smirk playing across his lips as the vocals and minimal keyboard accompaniment washed over him.

The beat dropped, and Jones’ splitting gin widened impossibly harder as his shoulders began to shake with unrepressed laughter.

“D:Ream Dan? Really?” he demanded, his face arranged into an expression of mock distaste.

Dan shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “It seemed fitting.”

Jones abandoned his groceries and flung himself into Dan’s arm, kissing him fiercely before pulling away and looking up into his eyes.

“You daft sod. I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> My My My - Armand Van Helden  
> Love Don't Let Me Go - David Guetta  
> Praise You - Fatboy Slim  
> Saturday Night - Whigfield (if you grew up in the UK and don't know the dance to this, shame on you!)  
> U Sure Do - Strike  
> Somebody's Watching Me - Beatfreakz  
> Things Can Only Get Better - D:Ream


End file.
